


Blood and Salt

by marinaandthediamonds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Dysfunctional Relationship, F/M, Self Harm, Self destruction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8937358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marinaandthediamonds/pseuds/marinaandthediamonds
Summary: Dean spirals into a dangerous cycle of self harm and destruction, all for the reader of course.[Heavily inspired by AHS Hotel]





	1. Chapter 1

Sam waved his hand in front of his brother. "Dean? You seem a little distracted lately. You okay?" He said in a concerned voice.  
Sam put his hand on Dean's arm, trying to have one of those things the elder Winchester had dubbed as a "chick flick moment". Dean winced at the contact, drew in a breath, closed his eyes, and yanked his hand away as quickly as he could. Sam looked at him, obviously hurt. "I...I'm just tired, that's all, Sammy. I'm just gonna go splash some water on my face to wake myself up, okay? I'll be back."   
Sam nodded cautiously and reluctantly went back to doing his research via laptop.

Dean ran to the bathroom as fast as he could without making too much of a scene.  
The door opened and slammed behind him, and he rushed to the sink, shoving his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing deep cuts. Some were up to 3 months old, others, just a few days. He took an uneasy breath in. His hand fumbled for the handles and water came out slowly, landing on his wounds. Dean winced as the water hit his sliced up arms. Hiding his arms from Sammy was becoming tiring, hard, and even painful (case in point). He sighed and turned off the faucet, glancing at his arms again. The Winchester threw a quick glance at the cracked, aged, ceiling, probably praying to God that he could keep this charade up for even just 5 months longer. "Just two more months, please," he recalled himself begging precisely 2 months ago. His end date was continually being extended, only on his accord, of course. But he could only keep secrets for so long. The dark circles under his eyes grew darker each day, he got weaker each week, and with each passing month, he grew paler and paler. "You're starting the blend in with the walls," Sam had teased, but Dean knew it was the truth. At this rate, he'd be dead by the end of next year. "Face it," he whispered to his reflection, "this is all your fault."  
-  
"Sam, I'll be back in a bit." Dean said quietly, opening the door. Sam looked like he was about to protest, so Dean spoke up before he had the chance. "I'm hoping maybe some human interaction will cheer me up. See ya."  
And before his younger brother could get the last word in, he walked outside and shit the door behind him.

Dean walked up to the front desk of the Hotel Cortez. While it had a retro charm, it always was abandoned except for few junkies laying around here and there. "Room 64, please. Just for tonight." He said gruffly, sliding the cash (along with the 50 extra that was a universal "keep out" for whoever he handed the money to) across the counter. The weathered secretary counted, then nodded in a satisfied manner and handed over the key. He took it and shoved his hands in his pockets. Making his way down the faded hallway, he spotted the laundress, doing her very hardest to scrub out a deep red stain that splashed and splattered across the vintage white sheets he knew so well. 

She smiled at him, and he flashed an awkward half smile before lowering his head. As much as he tried to convince himself that it was doing of some clumsy college students who had one too many drinks and dropped a wine glass (or five) on the mattress, deep down there was no way denying the coppery scent that latched onto his clothes as he passed. 

After a few more paces straight ahead, he made it. Room 64. Dean took a deep breath and let it out slowly before unlocking the door and stepping in. He took off his jacket cautiously, making sure no one was there, before he set his jacket on a counter and sat down at the table. His scars and cuts were on display for whoever walked in the door, going up and down his biceps, the sides of his waist, around his tattoo, tracing his wrists. "What happened to you?", the visitor would ask curiously in an empathetic tone. He would glance to floor before answering as softly as he could, "you'll do anything to keep the person you love alive."


	2. Sweet Things

Dean sat up a little as he heard a familiar voice whistling as they walked leisurely down the hall. The song grew closer and he tensed up a bit. Was it who he thought it was? What if it wasn't? What if Sammy came through the door? Poor Sammy, little Sam, sweet Sam Winchester. He had always been the baby of the family. 

No one had ever babied Dean. All the love went straight to the younger Winchester. Dean was always the afterthought. There was Sam, and "oh, yeah. Dean." His parents would coddle the younger boy endlessly, the perfect child, everyone said. He had warm chocolate eyes that could melt your heart. Warm coffee colored hair that felt like a puppy's fur to the touch. Creamy, flawless, untouched, skin. Perfect grades. A scholar. He had the beautiful girls chasing after him. Sam went out on Friday nights. Dean stayed home. John (their father), adored Sam. Constant hugs, showered in praise, little presents here and there. 

Meanwhile, Dean was being backhanded by his father on the daily. Broken ribs and never ending bruises were always on Dean's itinerary. Sam always seemed so full of life. Dean's eyes were completely dead. Instead of being cherished, Dean always felt ugly, second best. His eyes were green. Sam didn't have green eyes. When he was 7, his birthday wish was to have brown eyes like little Sammy. Maybe then his dad wouldn't hit him quite so hard. Maybe his mom would come back. Maybe kids at school would finally talk to him. 

He didn't get his wish, his eyes stayed their brilliant emerald, and his caretaker continued to beat him each night as soon as Sam fell asleep. Dean's face was covered in freckles. Dean spent time outside away from his family whenever he had the occasion, so it wasn't a surprise that the smattering of orange specks were a byproduct. Kids at school teased him for the freckles. Dean spent hours staring in the mirror, wishing he was more like the younger Winchester. He just wanted to be perfect. The whistling came to an abrupt stop in front of his door. There was a small chuckle from outside the door, the knob turned and the door creaked open.

"Heya, Dean. You okay, doll?" The voice asked through a cigarette, closing the door behind them. "Could be better, truthfully." "Yeah? What hurts?" She asked and leaned down a bit. "All of me. I'm aching all over. I feel like I'm losing all my strength, I can barely hunt. Do you have dope with you? Anything?" He pleaded. "Dope isn't what you need, doll face. I wouldn't give it to you even if it was what you needed." She said. "Why not?" He asked sharply. She only shook her head in reply. "Next week, then. I'll see you later." She said. "What?! No. Please, no, I'm okay, I'm just tired. I promise, (Y/N), I'm clean as a whistle. I didn't even drink. Just like you said." Dean begged. She took a long drag of her cigarette before looking over her shoulder. "I'm listening." 

He let out a sigh of relief and settled back into the chair. "Dean, I'm not going to do this when you're like this. You need at least two months to get better." (Y/N) said, sweeping her (h/c) hair to the side. Dean started to panic. "Two months? (Y/N), are you fucking nuts? You can't go that long.  
/I/ can't go that long." She shrugged and looked the floor. "I'll find someone else. There's always those who are willing." Dean gripped the arms of the chair. "You're hungry, but I'M starving. We both need this, (Y/N), you know we do." Dean tried to reason. She smiled. "Dean, I don't rely on you for this. There are ALWAYS willing participants. Always. You are just one." She said without much sympathy to spare. Dean's eyes looked sadly to the ground. He crossed his arms self consciously. "S-so...you don't care about me at all, huh?" He whispered, trying his hardest to maintain his strong man appearance. 

She was on him within seconds. Her hand gripped his chiseled jaw, forcing him to look up at her washed out eyes. "I /never/ said that. I said I don't need you. I love you, God knows I do. But I don't need you to stay alive, Dean. You're dying." "I know I am. But I need to keep YOU alive." "I'm fine, Dean." "You know that junkies aren't the same. They'll poison you, you'll look as dead as I do." He argued, not breaking eye contact (not that he could). She swallowed and closed her eyes. "I know." "I'm strong enough. You have to do this. You have to." "I'm not going to do this, Dean. You're /dying/, do you not understand? You're DYING. You're going to be dead." "It's all for you. Everything is for you, (Y/N). Everything. I'll give my life for you."  
She let go, a look of disgust on her face. "You sicken me, Dean. All of you do. How could you say such a thing?"   
Dean tried to stand, only to find he was too dizzy, and he sat right back down. "Because you're my first priority." "You're an addict, Dean." "No I'm not." "Yes, you are." "No, I'm NOT!" He slammed his fist on the table. The room went silent. She sighed. "Fine."  
-  
The young looking woman looked over Dean carefully before pointing to a spot on his wrist. "Here. I can feel your pulse here, so we've got to be careful, understand?" She said. Dean nodded quickly and sat back in his chair. "Give it to me." She instructed. He handed her the small knife with the white handle. (Y/N) gently brought the knife down on Dean's arm, cutting down. Dean hissed at the pain, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. (Y/N) set the blade down on the table and looked up to him, waiting for his consent. "Go. D-do it." Dean said, looking at her wearily. She carefully put her mouth on the cut and drank, making sure to keep an eye on Dean.   
They had met at a party. The two Winchesters had been told to check it out, there were some monsters there. After an hour or two of investigating, they declared it safe, and decided to just enjoy the elegant affair. Or at least Sam had. Sam had walked across the room and got to work on hitting on a young brunette girl in a sweetheart cut red dress. Dean gave a sigh and sat down where the party seemed to taper off, a few lovely velvet chairs in the corner. He watched everyone converse and kiss and smile. Why couldn't he do that? Why couldn't he just be happy? A hand gently placed itself on his neck. "Why so serious, Mr. Winchester?" A rich voice questioned. He gulped. "Just a little lonely, that's all."  
The voice revealed itself as an elegant woman who seemed to be around 26, maybe younger, maybe older. She wore an expensive looking white dress, with a singular shoulder strap. She sat down in the chair next to his. "My name is (Y/N). Just (Y/N)." "My name is Dean." "I know." She stated. Dean looked up at her. "Tell me about yourself, Dean."   
Dean spilled it. His entire life story. Why, exactly? He didn't know, but he did it anyway. Her eyes lit up with interest and fascination as he spoke. (Y/N) scanned him, watched his every move hungrily, like a predator learning about its prey. Dean cleared his throat. "Look, if you're staring at me like that 'cause you want a one night stand or somethin', it ain't gonna happen."   
She shook her head. "Do you take me for a whore, Dean? I just want to know about you. Tell me more." She said. Dean nodded cautiously and continued. No one had taken this much genuine interest in him before. He'd never had someone look at him like that. Eventually, a man called for (Y/N). She smiled and said good bye. Dean sighed and smiled sadly as he watched her go.  
Later that night, there was a shout from a bedroom. Everyone was too busy laughing and drinking to notice, but Dean did. He pushed the door open and found (Y/N), drinking from the neck of a   
sophisticated-but-bratty looking young man. Dean tried to back up quietly and leave, but he bumped a bookshelf. (Y/N) caught the noise and dropped the man, looking up.   
"I won't hurt you, Dean. Unless you ask me too." She rubbed the smeared blood off her face and kicked it off her fingers. "Come here." She said. For some reason, he did. He walked to her. "I will not hurt you, Dean. Do you trust me?" She said firmly, looking up to meet his gaze. He nodded. "Then let me have some of yours."   
And for some reason, he nodded again. (Y/N) reached up and easily opened a gash on his throat, and helped herself. Dean gasped and put his hands on her hips and squeezed. And so began Dean's downward spiral to keep his love alive.


End file.
